by Cheryl Holt
She had no idea how to raise such a hideous accusation, and she wouldn’t listen to his justifications and rationalizations. It was beyond her to envision that sort of conversation.
“I love you, Catherine,” he suddenly declared, and he reached for her as if he’d pull her into his arms.
She jumped out of range. “You do not.”
“I do, and I had to tell you. It’s why I’ve been searching so desperately.”
“You love me?” She snorted with disgust. “That is hilarious.”
“Don’t mock me. I love you, and I’m excited to build a life with you. I think you love me too. All of that affection can’t have fled.”
“I might have been fond of you,” she admitted, “but any affection vanished about the time Gertrude forced me to read your note so I would realize you had never been serious. Or it might have been when she insisted I describe our affair. It was the most humiliating episode I ever endured.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“Stop saying that. It doesn’t change anything, and it certainly doesn’t fix anything.”
“But I am sorry. I’m sorry to the marrow of my bones.”
“It’s so easy to be a man,” she seethed.
“I wouldn’t agree with that.”
“Wouldn’t you? I’ve lost everything. What have you lost?”
“It appears I’ve lost you. You’re glaring at me as if I’m a stranger.”
“You are a stranger to me.”
He blew out a heavy breath. “Why are you being so difficult? I’ve found you, and we can be together now. I recognize there was a mix-up in London, but it’s over, and I don’t understand all this animosity.”
“You don’t understand it? Then you have to be the most obtuse oaf who ever lived.”
“I feel as if Fate drew me to Wallace Downs, and I was destined to stumble on you.”
“For what purpose?”
“For what purpose?” He looked genuinely perplexed. “We can marry. Let’s leave for Stanton Manor immediately. We’ll return to the manor, and you can pack your bags.”
She was aghast. “We’d travel to Stanton Manor? We’d marry?”
“Yes!” he vehemently stated. “Why shouldn’t we? It’s what we planned, and there’s no reason to delay.”
She studied him, wondering if he wasn’t a tad deranged. Was there madness in his blood? Could that be it?
He had a rich fiancée waiting for him in town. He had her wealthy, important family counting on him to follow through with the wedding. As far as she was aware, there had been no announcement of a severed betrothal. So what—precisely—was he expecting would transpire if they went to Stanton Manor?
He had to assume she was blind or deaf or incredibly stupid. The only thing he could offer her was a few more tumbles in his bed. Would he keep on with her until he planted a babe in her belly? She hadn’t asked Gertrude how many children he had already sired. Was it dozens? Was it hundreds?
Clearly, he was so debauched that the notion of one more didn’t bother him at all.
“Tell me this—if you can,” she said.
“If I can.”
“Are you worried about Libby even a little bit?”
“Libby Markham? Not particularly. I have no duty to her, no authority over her, and in fact I barely know her.”
Had there ever been such a cold, cruel comment? She shook her head with disgust. “Then tell me this.”
“What is it?”
“Are you still engaged to Priscilla?” A trapped look flashed in his eyes, and she snapped, “Don’t lie to me. I can see the answer for myself. It’s written all over your face.”
He sighed. “Yes, I’m still engaged to her, but not for long. I swear.”
“That blunt talk you were to have with Mr. Bolton never occurred?”
“It occurred, and…ah…we discussed the betrothal and…”
He couldn’t finish the sentence, and she held up a hand, indicating he should be silent. “Gertrude told me an interesting detail about that meeting.”
“I’ll just bet she did.”
“When you spoke with Mr. Bolton, might he have furnished you with an advance on Priscilla’s dowry?”
As he debated how to deny it, the world seemed to stop spinning on its axis. For an eternity, they were frozen in place, but it was pointless for him to conceal his response. She already knew what the reply had to be.
“Yes,” he ultimately said, “Mr. Bolton provided me with an advance on the dowry.”
“You accepted it without argument?”
He hesitated, then admitted, “I argued, but yes, I accepted it.”
Although Gertrude had been adamant about his low character, a silly, female part of her had hoped it wasn’t true. She’d hoped there was a route that would lead them to the happy, contented road they’d been walking before disaster had struck.
But luck had never been on her side. Rage surged in her, and she hurled an invective for the one and only time she’d ever uttered it in her life.
“Bastard!” she spat.
She slapped him as hard as she could—another first!—then she whipped away and ran, continuing on to the break in the trees that would convey her to the manor.
He called to her, more than once, but she didn’t glance back. She simply kept on, not pausing until she was through the woods and through the park and up the rear stairs to her room. She burst in and slammed the door, then spun the key in the lock so no one could follow her in.
She was extremely distraught, and the nausea that had plagued her all morning gurgled in her stomach. She raced into the bedchamber, fell to her knees, and grabbed the chamber pot from under the bed. Then she began to wretch, and she vomited over and over until there was nothing left in her belly.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Bentley ran a palm down the front of his coat, took a deep breath, and walked into Mr. Bolton’s office. He wasn’t sure what would happen, and it was very likely he was about to pound a nail in his own coffin.
He’d worked for Mr. Bolton since he’d finished his education at age sixteen, and he’d proved himself over and over. But Mr. Bolton didn’t like to learn that an employee was behaving in a manner that would disturb him. He liked to surround himself with industrious, diligent men who showed up on time, went to church on Sunday, and never caused a ripple in the fabric of society.
If he was in a foul mood, then Bentley’s career might be about to end, and to his great surprise the notion was enormously freeing. Was he about to shuck off the mantle of respectability he wore like a shroud?
Mr. Bolton was seated at his desk, and Bentley stood off to the side, waiting to be noticed. After several minutes, Mr. Bolton glanced over.
“Yes, Bentley?”
“I have a rather difficult matter to discuss with you, sir.”
“What is it?” Mr. Bolton asked as he motioned Bentley to the chair across.
“It’s along the lines of a confession.”
“You? Offering a confession? Gad, Bentley, you are the most responsible member of my team. I can’t imagine what you could ever do that might lower my opinion of you.”
“I’m gratified to hear it.”
Yet Bentley couldn’t start. He’d meticulously rehearsed his speech and knew precisely what he wished to say, but with his facing Mr. Bolton and his future on the line it was so painfully hard to begin.
“Well?” Mr. Bolton pressed. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s about Miss Markham.”
“What about her?”
“When I stopped by your house to deliver those papers, I was hoping to talk to her, but I discovered she’d left.”
“Yes, she’ll be out of the city for a bit.”
Mr. Bolton didn’t supply more information, didn’t mention where she was or why she was there. He simply studied Bentley, and Bentley decided it was now or never. People assumed he was a dolt and a coward,
but he wasn’t really. There had never been many issues about which he felt strongly, but he felt strongly about this.
“I believe I’ve gotten her into trouble with you and Miss Gertrude,” Bentley said.
“How so?”
“I’m nervous to tell you this, but she and I have been courting.”
“You and Miss Markham?”
“Yes, and we’re planning to wed, but I’ve been afraid to speak to you.”
“Why?”
“I was concerned—if you were against the idea—I would lose her forever.”
“I see.”
“Apparently, rumors have reached Miss Gertrude that Miss Markham involved herself in illicit conduct with an unidentified gentleman. The gentleman was myself, but she isn’t ruined. I would never dishonor her—or you.”
Mr. Bolton’s astonishment was clear. “My goodness, Bentley, you’ve astounded me.”
“She was protecting me, sir. When Miss Gertrude confronted her, Miss Markham would have been fearful of my position with you. It’s my fault for scaring her. I constantly warned her to keep our friendship a secret.”
“I understand.”
“I’ve been stupid to have delayed in asking you for her hand so I’m asking now. May I marry Miss Markham? I can’t let her reputation be besmirched when she’s committed no sins. Nor can I allow her to be sent away in disgrace when I should have behaved properly from the outset.”
It seemed the point where he should shut up. He’d told his lies, and Mr. Bolton would either accept them or he wouldn’t. Bentley thought he was an excellent match for Miss Markham. He had a steady job, substantial savings, and a home of his own.
She could do much worse for herself. Of course what she might think about the situation he couldn’t imagine. He wasn’t the sort of husband she’d ever envisioned for herself. Then again, in light of her recent difficulties, perhaps she would have lowered her standards.
He was prepared to rescue her and that had to count for something.
The silence continued for an eternity, and finally Bentley said, “I realize I’ve shocked you. Would you like some privacy to ponder my request? Should I step out?”
The question galvanized Mr. Bolton. “I don’t need to reflect. It’s a marvelous suggestion, and I’m surprised it didn’t occur to me before. I couldn’t figure out how to arrange Libby’s future, and I’m delighted to have you arrange it for me.”
“Thank you, sir. If you could provide me with her location, I’d appreciate it. I should like to leave the office to fetch her.”
“Yes, that would be fine.”
It was the first occasion Bentley had ever sought time off. Twenty-four years—and he’d never missed once!
“Also, sir, I have a proposal I’d like to raise.”
“Certainly.”
“You’re working to establish an office in the United States so you can sell your products there. It’s a bold plan, and I would like to volunteer to move there as your representative.”
“You’d abandon me?”
“Only with your permission, but I feel—with such a far distance—you should have a loyal man on the other side of the ocean.”
Mr. Bolton chuckled. “You’re just full of stellar ideas today.”
“I like to help. You know that.”
Actually, Bentley was anxious to separate Miss Markham from the bad influences in London that had destroyed her. Particularly if she was in the family way, he would save her by starting over in Massachusetts. No one there would fret over when a child might have been conceived, and a sea voyage and life in another country might furnish the type of excitement and adventure she was always chasing.
“Have you talked to Miss Markham about this?” Mr. Bolton asked.
“We’ve discussed it,” Bentley lied again and with such a straight face! “She’s thrilled about it. In fact, she was the one who thought of it.”
“Really? I wouldn’t have predicted she’d have had a head for business.”
“She wants me to succeed. She’s been very sweet about it.”
Mr. Bolton nodded. “I heartily consent to your marrying Miss Markham, Bentley. I would like you to get it accomplished right away.”
“I’d be happy to, Mr. Bolton.”
“And I’m sending you to Massachusetts. I’d like you to sail as quickly as you can.”
“I could be ready in a month.”
Mr. Bolton took a quill and jotted down the name and address of the establishment where Miss Markham had been locked away. He shoved it across the desk.
“Retrieve your bride, Bentley,” Mr. Bolton said, “then return to London and pack your traveling trunks.”
“I will.” Bentley stood and shook Mr. Bolton’s hand. “You won’t regret any of this.”
“I’m sure I won’t.” Mr. Bolton waved him away. “Now go. You have a busy schedule all of a sudden.”
“Yes, I do.”
Bentley grinned and strolled out. He grabbed his coat and hat, then trotted down the hall and the stairs to exit the building. The minute he was finally out on the street, terror seized him, and he collapsed against the wall.
What on Earth would Miss Markham think? How would she view his rash deed? She might not wish to be rescued and might choose to languish in disgrace forever rather than attach herself to him.
There was only one way to find out.
He pushed away from the wall and headed for home so he could arrange a swift journey to the country. He had to speak with her just as fast as a carriage could convey him to her side.
* * * *
Christopher ambled down the London sidewalk. It was dark and rainy, people hurrying to their evening entertainments. Feeling aimless and adrift, he was in no rush himself. He sauntered on, not caring about the weather or the crowds.
After his disastrous visit to Wallace Downs, he’d spent several days at Stanton Manor, but the place was cold and drafty, and the solitude had driven him mad. He’d agreed to the rural sojourn ostensibly to satisfy Mr. Bolton’s request that he reflect on his betrothal, but he’d really gone because he’d hoped Catherine might show up there.
What a joke! As if Lady Catherine Henley would ever show up where he needed her to be. She was so far above him in rank and station that it was mortifying to recall how avidly he’d pursued her. She must have gotten a good laugh from all his ridiculous posturing.
In his flirtation with her, he’d constantly acted as if he was the superior person, as if he held all the cards and she was the lonely girl who was fortunate to have caught his notice. Well, the tables had certainly been turned, hadn’t they?
Through her sister’s marriage, she’d allied herself with Alex Wallace so she had all sorts of prospects in her future. Suitors would line up to claim her, and the realization would have been hilarious if it hadn’t been so galling.
The longer he’d dawdled at home, the more pathetic he’d seemed. Ultimately, he’d ridden back to town, and he was looking for something: companionship, friends, amusement. A violent brawl would please him too, and he was keeping an eye out for Andrew’s nemesis, Mr. Hodson.
He approached a gentleman’s club where he often socialized. He wasn’t a member—he didn’t have the funds to join—but the owner was a veteran, and he welcomed other veterans. He decided to pop in for a libation, and maybe he’d encounter a few acquaintances who could provide conversation.
If nothing else, he could get blind, stinking drunk. With his mood being so foul, a hefty bout of inebriation sounded like a perfect solution.
He was welcomed inside and wandered the various parlors, searching for familiar faces, but not seeing any. At the end of the hall, there was a gambling room, and it was packed with men, the scourge of wagering being a vice most of them couldn’t resist.
One table was particularly full, and there was a collective moan of dismay as someone lost a huge bet. Christopher wasn’t interested in the idiot who’d been bankru
pted, but he sidled over anyway to take a peek. The sight that greeted him was too infuriating for words.
Andrew was in the thick of an expensive game, the table littered with stacks of money, but also watches, rings, and other jewelry. He was shaking a pair of dice and murmuring incantations to bring him luck as he prepared to throw them. His shirt was untucked, his hair disheveled, and sweat dripped from his nose.
He still had a cast on his arm from where Mr. Hodson had broken it, and his bruises were still visible. The signs of his beating weren’t completely faded so he couldn’t have forgotten the dangers of high-stakes play, but apparently it didn’t matter. He appeared to be possessed, practically demonic in his drive to feed a hunger Christopher couldn’t understand.
His brother was his only kin. He represented family, their deceased parents and brother, the past and the estate and the ancestors who’d cherished and tended it down through the centuries.
He would have done anything to assist Andrew, to protect Andrew, to keep him safe. He would have walked in fire, endured any punishment, carried any burden.
He remembered the morning at his apartment where he’d found Andrew pummeled and maimed. Andrew had wept like a little boy and sworn he would never, ever, never gamble again.
Christopher could have blustered into the middle of the terrible scene. He could have swept the coins and jewelry onto the floor. He could have scolded the spectators for spurring Andrew on. He could have grabbed his brother and yanked him out, but what was the point?
Disgusted, disturbed, wretched, livid, sick at heart, he whipped away and marched out.
* * * *
Abigail smiled at her sister across the breakfast table. It was such a pleasure to have her staying with them. Her joy would be compounded once Sarah was with them too. Her sole worry was that Catherine didn’t look healthy.
“What if Alex’s lawyer finds out we actually have dowries?” Catherine said. “Wouldn’t that be something?”
“It would mean Jasper hid them from us.”